New Earth
A hundred years ago, this ground had been torn open by angelic spears and shadow tendrils. The sky had wept gold fire. The air had tasted of ash and copper and the dying screams of Adam's failed heaven. Now grass covered every wound. Wildflowers nodded in a breeze that carried nothing but the scent of soil and distant rain.
Lucifer stood at the edge of the shallow depression and felt the fragment around his neck pull so hard it left a mark.
Dera hadn't moved from her spot near the stone hatch. She'd watched them approach in silence, her weight shifted back on her heels, her arms crossed loose across her chest. Not a defensive posture. A patient one. She'd been expecting this visit for decades.
"You took your time," she said.
Her voice was steady. Older than he remembered. Not older in years—Progenitors didn't age—but older in the way people grew when they carried burdens alone.
Lucifer touched the vial through his shirt. The golden fragment pulsed against his sternum.
